


Wanting

by adavison



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Facebook: The Pen15 is Mightier, M/M, POV First Person, Pining, Stream of Consciousness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavison/pseuds/adavison
Summary: “Composing your next song?” he asks me, his voice deep and gravelly.“No,” I turn to him and say. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Pen15 Challenge 10: New Year New Me





	Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic was written for The Pen15 is Mightier Bi-Monthly Writing Challenge. This challenge's topic: New Year, New Me. Write for a pairing or fandom you've never written before.
> 
> Big thank you's to my Alphas: [meditationsinemergencies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/profile), [Ms_SackvilleWest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_SackvilleWest/profile), and my Betas [OllieMaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMaye/profile), [MistressSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressSage/profile), and Uncle A. Without you, I would be lost!

The wind whispers tales of where it’s been—what it’s seen—as it rushes through the tall grass. It carries with it the scent of well-worn earth and the heat of the day—if heat can have a smell. The air is warm as it enters my nose. Dry, but not like in winter where everything is sharp. Oh no, this is full of promise. It carries with it the feeling of the serenity one experiences when lying under a large oak—the sun is at its highest point in the sky—eyes closed, and the light filtering in from beyond your lids is a pink-tinged yellow, almost apricot. It is warm, it is safe, and it is full of hope for a bountiful harvest. 

He acts as though he wants nothing to do with me. However, if he truly wished to be rid of me, he would have galloped off on that magnificent beast of his. Roach. Wasn’t that what he called her? She is quite beautiful and he speaks so softly to her, almost like one would to a lover. Not that I think he’s fucking his horse, though having seen the man—the Witcher—up close, I am certain that he must be hung like a stallion. Those trousers he wears cling to him in a way that leaves little to the imagination. And oh, have I imagined. 

Songs could be sung about the contents of that package, though they are not for me to write. He already finds, or at least pretends to find, my songs—or really anything about me—tedious. I doubt any music coming from my lips would be appreciated. I asked him once what he thought of my singing. He compared it to a pie with no filling. I must be honest, I did not really take too much offence to it as I pretended to. My tales are not for everyone. And oh, the rush I feel while verbally sparring with him. It’s as though I stand on a precipice, the wind rushing against my face—yes, that aforementioned wind—and that drop, nay plummet in one’s heart and one’s gut occurs at the mere thought of falling, jumping from that ledge, feet first into the chasm that is desire. 

You may be surprised, me pining after the man—the legend. My prowess with women throughout many kingdoms is well-known. There may be no songs written about my stamina, but oh, I do leave those who join me in my bed singing—some even screaming. They keep me occupied. After all, he is not my destiny. Or at least, I am not his.

I fell into his company quite by chance. True, I was rather persistent in the beginning. I only wanted material for my music and companionship then. The material he provided in spades. Well, I say he provided it. He did, in a way. He did all… well, most of the things that I chronicled. Alright, yes, I may have embellished the tales a bit. However, show me a good bard who has not. But I digress. He slew the monsters, but he was rather stingy with the details. His half of our conversations usually consisted of ‘Hmmm’ or ‘Fuck’. I had to gather the information from unfortunate villagers who happened to be witness to his heroics. From time to time I witnessed them, but after our first encounter with the elves, I chose to stay away from the action. It was not for me to take part, merely observe—besides, I was not looking to replace another lute.

Things have been different with the man lately though. We have spent quite a lot of time in the company of a beautiful, yet terrifying mage. I found my immediate dislike of the woman—being—quite odd, for it is rare that I encounter someone I despise so vehemently. It took some time, but the root cause came to me. Well, I say came to me. It more or less slapped me upside the head and sent me reeling. 

Geralt assumed I was jealous. In that, he was not wrong. But the curves I crave to feel beneath my fingers are not hers. For the first time in my life, it is not the supple, plush lips of a woman I crave. It is not to be lost in soft breasts and thighs or to bury myself again and again in a warm wet cunt. No. Ever since I saw him thrusting inside of her, being ridden by her, I have had an unquenchable desire to be taken by that same cock. 

How is it that one can go their whole lives and not long for something then out of the blue, it becomes all one can think about? My dreams, both waking and sleeping, are filled with strong, heavily defined, rippling muscles. What would that abdomen or those strong arms look like as he thrust deep into my quivering entrance? What would it feel like to have arms stronger than mine grasp me and make me writhe? Would the slapping of slick flesh against flesh be that much sweeter? They say Witchers are incapable of emotions, but I know that to be a lie. Would they seep out with the passion, the furiousness of our lovemaking? I long for answers but know that I shall receive none.

I am not his destiny. The mage is not his destiny. And yet… and yet…

The mountains. It was in the mountains that I realised my desires. My flirting with those women, those gorgeous women, brought me no joy. And no, it was not because they rejected my advances. I am not that lascivious. Consent is key. Perhaps they could tell my heart was not in it. Although I did not know myself until that day. 

The air, that sweet mountain air, so very different from that of the summer lands, the air that surrounds us now. It is sweet. Pine and evergreens fill the landscape, at least that which is not too rocky and emit a homey fragrance, one that brings to mind celebrations of the winter solstice. Although it was a dangerous place, I felt safe as I always do when I am with him. 

Staring out into the gaping maw of that ravine, I knew. My heart, my head, my gut had all plummeted off the face of that mountain. It was all his fault, Geralt, with his hair shining like silver and his eyes aflame. A fire rages within those depths that can sear into your very soul. All my mind could process was want. I want. I want. Oh, I want. 

I want that hand upon my thigh, my shoulder, my chest, my cheek, my cock. I want to turn those “‘Hmmm’s' into moans. I long to turn the grunted ‘Fucks’ into cries of ecstasy. I want….

I want to lay beside the man, under the vast expanse of stars. We don’t have to do anything. I just want his hand in mine. His head on my shoulder, or mine on his. I want him in my bed. Always. I want him. I want him and only him. I have not even had him and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that if he were mine, I would lust after no other. Monogamy is not a thing I have ever longed for, nor ever thought much about. But for him. Oh, for him I would leave it all behind. For him, I would forego breasts for his rock hard pecs. His would not be a soft embrace, but I crave it all the same.

Life is too short. The loss of our new friends reminds me of that so acutely. Life, the horrid cruel bitch, takes indiscriminately. You can sometimes hear her cackling as she robs us of youth, beauty, time, our own lives. Do what pleases you while you can. 

“Composing your next song?” he asks me, his voice deep and gravelly.

“No,” I turn to him and say. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”

He bites his lip. How can I not let my eyes linger there? What must those lips taste like? Those lips that move so little. Very rarely even a smile. Instead of using them for speech or voicing displeasure, does he save up those movements for times of pleasure? Would he ever for one moment consider spending that pleasure on me?

I do not have to wait long for my answer. As I am about to turn away, that rough calloused hand grabs mine and pulls me close. His eyes bore into mine for the briefest of moments. However, it feels like a lifetime. Suddenly, his lips are on mine. They press and seem to almost push into me all the thoughts, feelings, emotions that he is near incapable of expressing verbally. I cling to him. My entire world crashing down and then rebuilding itself all in the span of a second. His mouth is eager. His mouth is wanting. And with the way it is moving against mine, oh good gods above, is it worthy. 

I cling to his shirt, his hair, his shoulders, anything I can get my hands on. The earth has fallen away from underneath me and the only foundation I can cling to is him. We are exposed out in the open but I cannot find it within myself to care in the slightest. Let them see. Let them mock and scoff. Let that shrew, that bint, be jealous. She does not truly love him. She is just lonely—she wants to belong. If I am being honest with myself, I cannot blame her. Not completely. But they have been using each other. Which, to be honest, I am not completely against. 

But oh, this flame, this fire that is consuming us from the inside out. This fire that burns, that was ignited the moment our lips touched, is all-consuming. This is not two people who are using each other. This is longing, desire for a connection, for love. It goes beyond any feeling I have had before and I am sure it will go beyond anything I will have after.

His hands roam my body, and mine his. I always knew that he was a large man, but gods, his hands are massive. They are not gentle like a woman’s hands. They are rough, they are hard. They are insistent. But they feel… right. 

Silk. His hair is silk. How could one who spends all their days in the outdoors fighting monsters have such fine hair? It slips through my fingers like water. Like still, clean water from a lake that had recently been discovered. 

Oh, when did I end up in his lap? That warm, hard body pressing into me feels divine, though not as divine as the stiff member I feel pressing against my crotch. A roll of the hips sends me almost to the edge. I am hurtling forward into the great unknown. How has something this pleasurable been at my disposal my entire life and I am now just learning about it? There is something soothing in the simplicity of it though. I know all are different, but we have all the same equipment, though his substantially larger than mine. Would he shudder and moan at the things that I do, or does he see this in a completely different light?

At the moment, I care not. I roll my hips and he groans out another ‘Fuck’, but this one feels more primal. More urgent. It mirrors my own.

I want him. I want him. I want him. Oh, I want him on me, in me. I want him to consume me. I want. Oh, I want…

My vision darkens for a moment. Is this it? Is this the beginning of the end—an end where I fall so madly, deeply, truly in love with this man?

Alas, no. 

My eyes flutter open and I am awake on the cold hard ground. The fire died hours ago, leaving only smouldering embers behind. The air is damp, soggy, woodsy. I have been alone for two days, trekking back to civilisation and praying that I do not encounter another soul. 

He did not kiss me. He did not want me. He did not even want me as a friend—a companion. She left him and he became angry at me. It is doubtful we shall ever meet again. 

‘Tis for the better, I tell myself. One cannot miss what one never had.


End file.
